


Warmer

by johnnywalkerblu



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3390968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnywalkerblu/pseuds/johnnywalkerblu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between Dutch and the big guy, things get warmer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One of the many continuations I've written of _Warm_.

This time Cat doesn’t leave. Tail waving, she stands up like a feline gunslinger and watches Dutch approach.

“Uh oh. You had all day to think about it and now you’re defending your territory.” the blond says quietly. “You’re the only one that gets to sleep with him, hmm, Cat?”

Vasya says nothing, back propped against the headboard, watching them both, a small smile on his face, waiting to see how this confrontation plays out. 

Dutch sets down the copy of “A Connecticut Yankee” that she borrowed from his shelves this afternoon, and sits on the end of the bed, holding her hand out for Cat to inspect. Which Cat does, absolutely serene, sniffing carefully.

“I don’t want to replace you, dear heart.” Dutch crooks a finger and rubs a soft white chin, while Cat ignores her. “I mean, he’s certainly big enough for us to share, isn’t he?” The tabby’s head turns and she presents her ears for attention, preening when gentle scratching is her reward. “This’ll be my side, hmm? You can have his other side. I promise not to push you off.”

Cat sits like a pagan goddess, curling her tail around her, looking for all the world like she’s Khrushchev considering the missile crisis. Dutch moves up the bed a foot or so and finds the spots that most need a more intensive scratching. It takes a long five minutes, but the lovely blond wins through, getting Cat to accept being lifted and set on the short side of the mattress, still with plenty of room and access to her human.

Dutch collects her book, and slips under the covers, moving close to him, where the warm is. Cat looks at her for a moment, and pointedly turns her back, walking up the duvet to place herself on top of Vasya’s hand until he strokes her. She curves against his big palm for a few more moments and then settles down at his elbow, purring softly.

“Well…” he murmurs, “…détente. Congratulations, she didn’t claw you.”

Dutch giggles quietly. “She’ll probably go and take a shit in my boot or something.”

“Nah. If you piss this girl off she won’t play nice and then go behind your back. She’ll come right at you. You two ought to actually be best friends.”

Dutch gives him an arch look, and then whispers contritely, “I didn’t even ask, did I? I just assumed I was welcome again. I’m sorry…I just…”

She’s throwing the covers back to get up when he catches her slender, T-shirt clad arm and pulls her down into his bed, tugging the bedclothes up around her. “If there’s ever a day you’re not welcome, I’ll be sure and let you know. Now relax and read your book.”

It’s at quite a good passage, so she nestles close to him and starts in, giggling when Melissande insists on rescuing the herd of pigs, laughing outright at Twain’s turn of phrase.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” he teases as she reaches up for a tissue to dry her eyes. “I haven’t read it in years, but I don’t think I ever laughed that hard.”

“I love Twain. Dry humor at its finest. And a great sense for poking the people who need to be poked.” She glances over at his book. “More poetry?”

“No. Sholokhov. And Quiet Flows the Don. He’s almost a home town boy. His mother was a Ukrainian peasant, descended from the Cossacks, just like mine. It reminds me of where I come from.”

She’s been wanting to ask, since he spoke about them leaving Russia, because she has just as hard a time picturing them as she did an eight year old Vasiliy Fet. “What are they like, your parents? Are they…they are alive, right?”

His lovely blue eyes close quickly, and she wants to bang herself on the forehead with two hundred and whatever leather-bound pages. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, I just…you’ve never said…anything really.”

There’s no emotion whatsoever in his voice, and his face has gone blank. “We’re not close.”

That, she thinks, is patently untrue. The way he speaks about her, this man loves his mother. Quite a bit if she’s any judge of human behavior. Closing her book, she sets it on the table behind her and turns to him. “Why not?”

A long quiet minute passes in which Dutch wonders if she’s gone a bridge too far, and Vasya wonders if there might really be a person in the world that he can trust with his inner workings. He feels such an affinity with this young woman, like nothing he’s ever felt before. For the first time in a very long time he feels comfortable with sharing a part of himself, and that sentiment makes the decision.

“My father and I…there was…we argued. A long time ago. We still argue. And when we do, that upsets my mother, so I don’t go home.”

“Must’ve been quite an argument if you haven’t finished it yet.” Leaping a couple more bridges, Dutch puts a gentle hand on his forearm, rubbing lightly over hard muscle and dark hair. “What did you fight about?”

The big man watches her hand on his arm, pondering exactly who is warming whom in this bed. “About what a son owes his father, I guess.”

“That’s why you asked.”

“Hmm?”

“About whether I was rebelling against my dad. Because you feel like you are? Or because he tells you that you are?”

“Oh, I’m not a rebel.” Closing his own book, he tosses it to the night table. “What I am is a disappointment. A nobody.”

Dutch slips her palm downward and her hand curves into his like it’s always known where it was supposed to be and was just waiting for the opportunity. “Does he say that sort of thing to you?”

“No. With my papa it’s always a question. He’s a professor, so he’s really good at putting words in your mouth, you know? _‘I should tell people what a burden you are?’ ‘You came home just to make your matushka cry?’_ Like that. I don’t let it bother me anymore.”

That is also clearly untrue, but Dutch doesn’t push it. “So what does he think you owe him?”

He’s never, ever, discussed this part of his life with anyone. When forced to confront it himself, he generally puts on his sweats, wraps his hands and punches the heavy bag until he can’t lift his arms, or his knuckles start to leave bloody spots on the blank canvas surface, whichever comes first. 

“I could always draw…” he begins, thinking back, “…right from go. The eye sees and the hand expresses. He thinks I get it from him, and I probably do, his side of the family are the readers and writers. 

Architecture was his profession and his passion, so he steered me, his only son, in that direction. He stopped me drawing dragons and pirates and Cossack raiders on horseback, and sat me in front of buildings and monuments instead. But the eye still sees, and the hand still follows, and, as I got older, I began to embellish what I was sketching. Add a little here, subtract a little there, knock it over, push it out of true. That led me to drawing buildings that only existed in my head.

He encouraged me to draft them as perfectly as I could, taught me the calculations that let me build models of them, challenged me to plan how they could become reality. And if I drew a pirate ship or two in my book when he wasn’t looking, that was still okay.

Until I was…seventeen…I guess. Damn. That long ago. Calculus was giving me fits, and I took my frustrations out on my homework. Gave each problem its own little illustration. Some of them were a little out of line, I admit. When I turned it in, instead of dealing with me, my teacher called home.

He blew up. Yelled at me…the entire neighborhood heard him. I know that sounds childish, but that wasn’t the relationship we had. At least I didn’t think it was. Anyway. He stood me up in front of his desk and told me to grow up. He said I had to put everything else out of my life if I wanted to go to a good school, if I wanted to be the best.”

Dutch can feel how difficult it is for him to talk about this, and she waits patiently while he stares into his past. 

“I loved him so much. I would have cut out my heart if he wanted me to. So I got obsessed and stayed that way, shut off everything else. I did exactly what he asked. Perfect grades, perfect test scores, perfect applications, perfect interviews…”

“Didn’t it get awfully tiring…” she whispers, “…being perfect?”

“It was horrible. But I was sure it was all worth it. Because I got into the Architecture program at Cornell. He was so proud of me. Happy.”

“But you were miserable.”

A wry smile quirks his lips, and he huffs out a long sigh. “No. I was…there. I could do everything they expected. I could do it all very well. I just didn’t give a damn. I never despaired, because I was never overjoyed. I spent four years perfectly numb, turning out ideas that got me great grades and a lot of talk, but that had no soul. Because I had nothing in my heart to give them life. And then I graduated. With my Masters program prepared, the next step of the plan all in place.”

“But?”

“A friend of mine was taking a gap year. To tell the truth, he took about a gap decade when it was all said and done. But he needed a roommate for the summer because he’d gotten a job with the city.”

“Catching rats.” Dutch finishes, squeezing his hand gently.

“Catching rats. The life I started leading that summer, it was like waking up from a really vivid nightmare, you know? The kind where you’re buried alive. And all the pressure just dissipated. I could be me again, awake and alive. 

When the time came to head back to school, I said no, I’m not going. Papa yelled at me louder and longer than first time, but he wouldn’t have got me back upstate with a cattle prod. I knew I didn’t have to go, that there was another path. And I took it. 

He never forgave me. He never will. I killed the Vasiliy he loved. There’s no coming back from that.”

Dutch is frowning at their joined hands, wondering if she risks all the progress she’s made with her next question. “So why do you still try? Because you do…” she avers quickly, “…you must, or you wouldn’t still be fighting with him. You’d have given up.”

This huff is pure frustration. “I can’t give up. I’ve tried. But whenever I tell myself to quit caring, I think of what he went through to escape the Soviet Union. Of how hard it was for him even to imagine that he could be free, to believe that his wife and son could also, much less that he made it happen. He’s a better man than I ever will be for that piece of bravery alone.”

Dutch steals another glance at their joined hands. He has beautiful hands; she noticed that when they were first sat in her apartment, when he was fooling with Nicki’s rock hammer. Right before the first time he saved her life.

“I don’t know if I agree with you on that. You walked right into the lion’s den with me to take Palmer down. And not because you had anything to gain; but because it was the right thing to do. If everyone had that kind of guts we wouldn’t even be in this situation.”

“I just hope that he left when I told him to, and nothing’s happened to them. He would fight; they both would, but I’m not sure they’d win. Mama would start telling God to get off his ass and give her some help. ”

“Do you believe in God?”

Another loaded question. But he’s never been one to sidestep, especially not with people he likes. “I think it doesn’t matter. I think we’re on our own regardless. If it’s there, I don’t think it fixes anything. You?”

“Same for me I guess. I don’t think you can know. You ought to live your life right for yourself and the people around you. Not for a concept. Especially one that has the history that religions have.”

“True enough…” he responds softly, “…of course, I never thought I’d see anything like that bastard German either, so I’m willing to entertain the thought that if he exists, other things might.”

Just the mention of Eichorst makes her shudder, and Vasya moves down into the bed and puts an arm around her, their still-clasped hands folded up between their bodies. “That was stupid. I’m sorry. Don’t think about him. Not here, where you’re safe.”

Her eyes are filling, and she closes them, hard, trying to make it stop. There’s no crying. Crying doesn’t get you anywhere. That was a hard lesson, but she learned it a long time ago. Monsters aren’t affected by even a flood of tears.

Men, however, those gentle ones with valiant hearts? Evidence of such pain makes them intensely protective. Dutch smiles through her tears as she feels Vasya move closer, as if his shoulders, all on their own, can shield her from her fears. And maybe they can, because she trusts him like she hasn’t trusted anyone in a long, long time. “I knew from the first he was dead inside.”

“Eichorst?”

“And Palmer. Like there was a thing looking out of their eyes. It was like you said last night. I recognized it, but I told myself it wasn’t the same.”

His voice rumbles up from deep in his chest, where the back of her hand is pressed to his sternum. “Did he hurt you? The shithead?”

The pale gangly fourteen-year-old inside her, the one that took all the punishment, wants to scream it, but she only nods, unable to meet his eyes, concentrating on the masculine grace of his hand, not thinking about the hands that groped her rapidly maturing body. “He started with just pulling on my pigtails and stuff, like he’d always done. Then it got to be pulling on my clothes. Snapping my bra, which I’d barely gotten the hang of wearing, looking down my…down my shirts.”

It’s difficult, the next part. “I was never a very pretty thing, tall, weedy, built like a sapling, my mother used to say, and I…I guess I liked the attention somehow. He said I was finally looking like something, and he just wanted to see...and then he touched me and I…”

“It’s called grooming.” the big man snaps. “And he needs to be taught a lesson in manners.”

“He lives in Yorkshire. In a council house with my mother. And they’re both dead to me.” 

“Still. Human monsters.” 

“I had to run away or he’d have raped me…” she admits in a rush, holding his hand tightly. “Eventually he would have. Just touching me wasn’t going to keep him satisfied. So one day…”

The memory draws her in and she pales, shuddering again. He’d pinched her pale tender breast so hard she’d screamed, then belted her in the ribs to shut her up. Only the postman knocking at the door had kept him from really getting down to it right then. 

“ …I stole my passport out of mum’s desk, put some extra clothes in my schoolbag and I never went home. I got a train to Glasgow and cleaned flats for a nice Serbian couple until I had the money to come here.”

The warm heavy arm over her flexes and she closes her eyes, curving into him as he rubs her back soothingly. “Again I come second in bravery.” he whispers. “Did you ever tell your mother?”

“I called her. Once. I didn’t want him going after someone else. She didn’t believe me. When I left, he told her I started the whole thing with him. She drank a lot, mum did, and never worked, so she really needed to keep him ‘round. So I was the liar, not him.”

“Right.” Vasya growls. “Sure. Adolescent girls run away because they enticed their asshole step-fathers into abusing them. You hear that every damned day.”

“Now I’m kind of wanting him to have to encounter you.” she admits with a wistful sigh. It was half her life ago, and she’s past it, but she can’t deny it would assuage some of the old pain, seeing that bastard cower. “I think I’d like seeing him as scared and alone as I was.”

Something in her chest loosens a turn or two as she pictures that scene, and the tears come, years’ worth. 

His warm grumble of concern thrums against her hand, and then he draws her arm up around his neck and she’s being enveloped in those strong arms, drawn into the enchanted circle, behind the castle wall. Hugging him fiercely tight, she cries on his chest until she’s gotten every last bit of distress out and finds some peace. The kind of peace she’s heard other people talk about, but never felt for herself. 

“Better?” he murmurs eventually, squeezing her a bit.

“Yeah.” She lifts her head and makes a little apologetic noise. “You need a dry shirt though.”

Cat is startled when he gets out of bed, and she stalks across the pillows above Dutch’s head, mrrrowing reprovingly, moving down to settle at the far corner and tuck her paws under. The rasp of the dresser drawer opening draws the blonde’s attention, and she absolutely cannot stop staring as Vasya pulls his damp T-shirt off and tosses it in the laundry basket. 

She knew intellectually what she was going to see, and beautiful isn’t a word she normally uses, especially not for men, but she’s making an exception here. Broad shoulders, hard chest, lean ribs, ripped abs, and just above the waistband of his dark blue pajama pants, a gorgeous line of obliques that beg for the stroke of a fingertip. The dark body hair is in evidence there too, heavy on his chest, and trailing down his belly, down to... 

Dutch bites her lip as she feels her thighs flex, her internal muscles reacting to her train of thought. It’s been a good while since she was with a man, it’s been Nicki for a year or so, but it seems her body recognizes the feelings she already has for him. He’s warm. He’s safe. He’s caring and gentle and sweet. And he makes her feel very much alive.

Shirt in hand, he turns back toward his bed to find her sitting, watching him, the interest on her face something he hasn’t seen there before. It tells him that while he might have had to fight his instincts last night, right here, right now, all he has to do is let her know he’s equally interested. 

How could he not be? She’s tall and trim, slender, yet beautifully curved where she ought to be. Definitely nothing like a sapling anymore. She’s sweet and playful and hot and temperamental; a handful of woman if he ever met one. Not to mention that she has the most delicious mouth he’s ever seen. 

“I think you should just leave that somewhere.” Her softly pointed chin jerks at his clean tee, now a bit wadded in his hand. “…and get in here. If you want to.”

Completely unconcerned about where it lands, he tosses the garment back over his shoulder and out of their way. “Oh I want to, sladkaya moya. Never doubt it.”

“You never told me what that means…” she breathes as he throws the covers back and joins her under them.

He lifts a hand, and one finger gently traces the fascinating curve of her lips. “It means _my sweet one_.” 

“You think I’m sweet?”

Soft lips are brushing hers now, the tiny prickle of his mustache a contrast so arousing that she’s trembling. “Very sweet. With plenty of spice. Kiss me, and we’ll see if I’m right.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dutch moves in, drawn by the power of their mutual attraction, until their mouths are a breath apart, nuzzling softly, enjoying the sparks they’re striking.

She can feel him wanting, and she makes him wait a moment longer, letting his warmth and his scent and his proximity arouse her, fantasizing just a little bit about how good he’s going to taste. The fantasy flies away when she presses her lips to his; the reality is all her senses have room for.

When he reaches to draw her into his arms, she catches his wrists, gently holding him back, her heart soaring when he grumbles low in his throat and acquiesces. It was his suggestion that she give the kiss, and she gives it her all, slow and sweet, teasing until his lips part to let her in. His low moan as she slips her tongue over his brings a triumphant little growl out of her, and the wet, warm deliciousness of his mouth makes her tackle him backward, sit herself on his belly and kiss the breath out of him.

The connection is so intense, the kisses so elemental, that she forgets about keeping him still, gasping softly into his mouth when he slides his hands up her soft thighs and guides her downward, settling the rapidly dampening patch in her panties directly over his erection, the solid heat of him palpable through the soft cotton of his sleep pants.

They moan together at the contact, the warm pleasure noise ricocheting from her mouth to his and back again as they share more deep, hungry kisses, pressing into one another below, another moment of convergence in which their bodies seem to have been planning this while their minds were otherwise occupied.

Eventually Dutch pulls away, drawing each kiss out, farther and farther, until she finally breaks away, breathless, whispering, “…sweet enough for you?”

Curling his fingers in the soft blonde spirals of her hair, he draws her back down, growling something in one of those languages she doesn’t speak, and an excited shiver runs up her spine.

“What did you call me?” she demands teasingly, nibbling on his ear.

Pleasure shivers through her as his beard rubs along her throat and he murmurs, “moya slasti.”

“Sounds pretty.” One hand braced over his heart, she presses herself back up and sweeps her T-shirt off, baring her body to him. The growl that rumbles through him as he appreciates the view pinkens her skin all the way from her smooth cheeks to the tips of her breasts.

“Beautiful.”

She’s biting her lip again. “Even though I’m not…you know…stacked?”

He sits up so quick that she squeaks in aroused surprise, grabbing at his shoulders for balance, the heat in her eyes a match for the heat in his. “Stacked is in the eye of the beholder. And real trumps all other details.”

“It does?” she gasps, as his hands stroke upward from her slim waist to gently cup the softly rounded globes.

Her body is responding to him so deliciously that his brain is ceasing to have much room for anything as sophisticated as speech, but he manages a grunt of agreement before he bends her back over his arm and removes any doubt about how beautiful he finds her breasts.

She’s mewling with need by the time he draws off, her nipples hard and wet, the pale skin around them brushed pink from the sweet friction of his mustache.

His eyes darken a shade at the desire he sees in those lovely green eyes. His usual relations with women are rare and mostly of the impersonal sort. He tends to pay for sex with drinks and cab fare, and then go on with his life. Neither of them are just going on with their lives after this; he feels that with the same internal certainty that’s kept him alive until now.

“Dutch.”

She tilts her chin inquiringly, eyebrows raised, bending sinuously closer to kiss him again.

When it breaks he cups her beautiful face in one big hand, thumb brushing the straight line of her nose, dipping to stroke her chin. “I don't want once. Seven days; we hardly know each other. Every other objection you can think of. I want…to keep you, moya slasti.”

Warmed far more by his words than she is by his arms, she pulls him into another kiss; lingering when he invites the sweet touch of her tongue to his. “You can’t possibly be misinformed on how I feel about you.” she murmurs, guiding his open hand, arching her breast into his warm palm. “We just have to start with once...” she teases softly, shivering against him as he caresses her. “Then we’ll go on from there. But you can only keep me if you tell me what moy..ma…what that means.”

“Moya slasti.” he says quietly against her mouth, enunciating carefully so she feels every sound. 

“Okay. English please?” A muffled giggle escapes her as he runs his palms down to her bent knees, lifting her bodily, tipping her backward into the duvet, moving to taste her mouth and then trail soft reverent kisses down her throat.

“English. Hmm…it doesn’t have an exact translation…” he murmurs to her sternum. “Slasti is a small…”, he pauses to rim her navel tenderly, “…perfect…”, his finger hooks in the side of her boy shorts and he tugs them off, dropping them over the side of the bed, “…treat.” 

His lips travel across the line of the dark golden bramble of her mound, small kisses, gently placed, while he strokes the smooth curve of her hip. “A beautiful…”, this kiss falls just at the apex of her sex as he strokes her legs wide, “…sweet…”, the soft touch of his tongue to her plump clitoris, “…mouthful.”

Dutch sobs with pleasure as Vasya takes the first taste of his slasti, kissing and licking so deliciously she can only respond to his loving touch, arching to him, thighs quivering, hand plunged into his dark hair to draw him closer.

“Sweeter than I imagined…” he murmurs, roweling his bristled chin over her pink flesh, savoring her soft yelps as his whiskers prod sensitive places. 

As his kisses move to soothe the sting, her honey begins to drip, body aching for penetration, and he growls softly, sliding his tongue down the wet arrow, circling her tight entry. To her whispered entreaty, he grumbles an affirmation and penetrates her, pressing his tongue just over her threshold, again and again, lapping at her silky well until his head fills with her scent and she’s quaking in his arms. 

On the edge of orgasm, whimpering softly, she writhes beneath his caress, a choked cry escaping her when he leaves her wet opening with a final kiss and moves upward, tongue stroking deliciously slowly around her hard nub. Very gently, he teases her with a finger, caressing the slick pink folds, then slides it deep into the snug heat of her passage. 

A delicious little cry escapes her and trembling knees clench tight on his shoulders, the hand she still has in his hair snapping shut as she urges up to his mouth. He holds her poised there, stroking gently over the pliant stretch of her G spot, all the while mouthing her silky clitoris, feeling it grow harder as she strives for the peak. 

Her body is demanding climax, the tiny muscles in her sheath twitching and tightening, her breathing growing ever more strained, and he obliges, crooking his finger and pressing it upward toward his tongue, trapping her throbbing nub between the two, inside and out, slowly flexing his hand until she sobs, absolutely undone. 

Orgasm catches her up and shakes her, and he feels her body release, moving to thrust his finger up into the rush of cream as she spasms, listening to her pant, feeling her shiver and quake, clinging to him like he’s the last solid thing in her personal hurricane. He draws the feeling out for her as long as he can, taking her to the edge of her endurance, until her consciousness tips and she sighs out with the tide.


	3. Chapter 3

Awareness returns to her by degrees, her leg bent, her heart rate settled somewhere near its normal rhythm, her hand still tangled in his hair, closer than it was however, because he’s moved up to lay his cheek over her heart, and he’s cuddling her close while she floats. A soft sigh is all she can manage, but it brings his head up, and she smiles at him.

“Well…there you are. Thought I broke you or something.”

Unable to vocalize what she’s feeling for the first time in long, long time, Dutch reaches for his broad shoulders and draws him up to kiss, sliding her hands down to get him naked, and realizing he already is. “Darn…” she breathes into his mouth, rubbing her palm over a rock hard buttock, “…I wanted to do that.”

“It got a little hot in here.” The smile on his face is so unrelentingly possessive that she feels a wave of good old fashioned embarrassment and blushes, unable to hold his gaze.

He takes the opportunity to kiss her throat, nipping lightly. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Or felt, my sweet one. You’re gorgeous.”

“I’m not.” she protests, stroking his jawline, touching his lips to stop his adoring words. “I just…”

“You just gave me everything.” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her palm.

She blushes again, can’t help it at all. “Not everything.”

“Well…” he grumbles softly, “…not going to deny that the next time you have an orgasm like that, I want to be right in the middle of it. If you…I mean…I…you might not…”

“I might not what?” she whispers, lifting his raspy chin so she can see those amazing eyes. 

“Want that.” he admits, smiling down at her. “Women who enjoy women might not want…”

He’s so adorably hesitant for the forthright man she knows he is, that her heart melts. He wants to keep her? She’s keeping him until he’s old and gray. “Wrong…” she whispers. “…about me at least. And…” She reaches down between them, touching all of those gorgeous muscles, finding the slim line of dark hair that leads right where she wants to go, stroking the hard length of his manhood. “…what I want most of all is you. Just you.”

“Yeah?” The hesitation is still there, but she’s fairly sure she’s erased the thought that he’ll be forcing her in some way he doesn’t even fathom.

“Yeah. Is that so hard to believe? That you might get to have something you really want? Or that someone might want to please you?”

“Doesn’t happen much.”

“That was before you met me.” she breathes, moving to kiss his throat, reaching to caress his lovely buttock again. 

When he moves to respond, pressing her down into the bed, she grabs his big hand and pushes him over, pinning it, and him, flat to the mattress. “Not so fast. One thing I do insist on is that we’re equals in bed.” The hottest kiss ever falls on his tightly budded nipple and she licks gently down the trail of black hair she roughed up just a second ago. His fully erect cock is inches away, hard and red and pointed straight at the ceiling. As big and as beautiful as the rest of him. “So…tongue first…or right in my mouth?”

“If we’re equals…” he growls, forcing himself not to arch up to the ecstasy he knows awaits him, “…you don’t get any instructions. I had to just go for it. So do you.”

“Oh…” Dutch lets her head drift and rubs her creamy cheek up the hard column before her, savoring his gasping groan. “My turn to go exploring, hmm?”

He grunts, and Dutch leans, placing a warm, hungry kiss on the silky-skinned underside, right where shaft becomes crown. “One…” she murmurs, trailing a finger over his ribs.

“That…that was… a gimme.” he protests unevenly. “Got to try harder than that.”

“Watch me. I will.” And she does, touching him everywhere, kissing, stroking, returning to lavish her attention on the spots that make him growl, finding that he’s very sensitive right at the base of his penis, that gentle kisses to his scrotum are much appreciated, and that he likes the light changeable pressure of her spread fingers on his cock, rather than a fist.

These are the strokes that she uses to guide him into her mouth, opening as wide as she possibly can, loving every second of the slow slide, his needy groans, and the bitter salt taste of the pre-come that trails out onto her tongue as she sucks.

He’s delicious, all that power responding to her lightest touch, and she works him slow, hand caressing the length her mouth can’t accept, joy rushing through her when she hears him groaning, feels the length in her mouth heating, his balls drawing tight. She wouldn’t mind one bit if he came in her mouth, but she can’t deny she wants to give him exactly what he asked for, their bodies joined at climax. So she tempers the stimulation for a few strokes, letting him relax, before easing up and off, lapping at the drooling tip.

Then she’s up and over him, kissing him deeply, guiding one big hand to the curve of her waist, whining into his mouth when the other dips between them to stroke her swollen pink folds. “You’d better have some condoms…” she warns against his chin, “…and they’d better not be too far away.”

“In the drawer to your left.” He releases her as she bends to retrieve them, folding his arms and stacking his hands behind his head, watching her fondly as she pulls out the box of Sir Richards XLs and tweezes one between her fingers.

The foil tears. “You want me to do it?”

“What do you think?”

The grin on her face is the loveliest thing he’s seen in quite a while. “I think…that the smartest thing I ever did was let you come upstairs, that night.” Gentle fingers are rolling the smooth latex down, teasing for a delicious moment at the hotspot she found.

“I didn’t want to let you out of my sight.” he admits quietly. “You don’t know how I hoped I’d find a reason to take you home with me.”

“I was going to ask you…” Dutch leans and lands, and pets his hard, furred chest with both hands. “…if I could go with you when… circumstances intervened.”

His hands unlock in a heartbeat and he gathers her close, stroking her back and arms, kissing her gently. “Don’t think about any of that, love. We get to have this. There’s nothing beyond the edges of this mattress right now, okay?”

She giggles into his mouth and nips his lip tenderly. “The floor is lava.” she intones.

“What?”

“It’s a game. Rowdy and loud in my house when I was little. The floor is lava, so you can’t step on it, and you have to jump on beds and stand on chairs. I used to use the laundry basket as a boat.”

“That’s my little problem-solver.” he growls, rolling her down into the soft bedclothes and holding her there, kissing her hungrily, the warmth increasing until their mouths are glued and she’s arching up, that soft blonde bramble leaving damp spots on his lower belly.

Long slim arms wrap up around his neck and she tugs him down into her embrace. Tips her chin up, staring into his eyes. “Come to me.”

That is an invitation that nature did not make him to deny, and he strokes a long sleekly muscled thigh, poising himself at her entry, easing forward just the slightest, feeling her silken flesh first accept, then begin to draw his penis in.

Her soft moan nearly undoes him. “Everything please…” she whimpers, “…everything.”

Moving to comply, he almost loses himself like a teenager when she digs her heels into the bed, lifts herself to his penetration and gets everything.

The deep growl he voices is part pleasure, part hunger and part awe. Very rarely has there been a woman in his life that can take all of him. Not only take, but he can feel that what his earlier exploration led him to believe is true, she has the depth to accept him further, to let him thrust without hurting her. The growl boils up from deep in his chest and he grips her thighs gently while he gets himself back under control. He wants this to be as wonderful as everything leading up to it has been, as good as he senses it can be.

Dutch is staring up at him, holding him close, her lovely body so welcoming, and he begins to move, his hand gently framing her beautiful face, tipping her to kiss while he explores how deep he can go. It turns out to be all the way, right to the hilt in her silky well, and the slow, steady meeting of their hips begins to drag low exclamations of delight from them both. 

It’s not long at all before he registers the quickening of her breathing, the now familiar tightening of her tiny interior muscles. Hands caressing the curve of her beautiful bottom, he shifts the angle a fraction to hit that spot for her again with every stroke, each faster and stronger than the last, and orgasm rockets through her body, while she whimpers helplessly into his shoulder, holding him tight.

“You can wipe that smug little grin off your face…” she pants, when she finds the air to speak.

“No…I really don’t think I can…” he grumbles back, letting the pace slip to long, slow strokes that are so powerful they make her gasp, keeping her thrumming with need, simmering, ready to boil. “…you’re too beautiful. Moya slasti.”

A wonderful tearing tenderness rushes through her and she grabs playfully for his neck, hauling him down to kiss, pleased beyond words when he gives over control. 

The soft grumble of pleasure in his chest when she licks his mouth, flicking her tongue over his, sends a shiver of delight through her, and she pulls him closer, rubbing the hard lines of muscle in his back, lifting her thighs higher around his ribs. 

A deep needy growl escapes him as she adjusts the angle of their joining, and her vagina becomes a long, soft, tight slide for his cock. It’s an extremely flattering sound, and Dutch answers it with slow upward pulses of her hips, matching the rhythm he needs, sobbing in her throat as his hard length anchors deep and drives to her center with each thrust.

There’s no stopping now, and joy floods her as she feels him losing control, his big frame shaking with effort as he works his heart out for her, trying to hold his own orgasm at bay until he’s given her another. So she meets him more urgently, flexing her muscles, winding herself tight around him, sliding her hands down to clutch his hard buttocks and shorten his strokes.

That undoes him finally, the wet, hot friction of her innermost muscles on the deliciously trapped tip of his erection taking him over the edge. His deep groans of release as he clutches her close, and the wonderfully dominant drive of his hips as he spends inside her, accomplish what his slower thrusts didn’t, throwing Dutch back off the cliff as well.

They cling, wrapped so tightly together they might well be one, trying to hold the eternal instant of completion. But the moment breaks, as even the best moments must, and they relax in a sweaty bundle of limbs, breathing deeply, letting their hearts slow.


	4. Chapter 4

“Don’t go…” Dutch spreads her hands wide on Vasya’s broad back and presses him close, lips against his ear as he moves to separate himself from her. It’s been long enough since they finished that he’s already pulled the duvet up to keep them warm, and his weight has kept her from taking a really deep breath for a while, but she truly hates the feeling of being left.

“I won’t go far.” And he doesn’t, withdrawing gently, a rumble in his chest as the echo of their mutual pleasure rings through their bodies. 

The long inhale is nice; her exercised body appreciates it, but she mostly just wants him back in her arms. Where he belongs.

Condom removed and disposed of, Vasya returns to his bed, unable to keep that possessive smile hidden. His lovely blonde is rumpled and worn out and drenched with his scent, just the way a man wants to see his woman. She's certainly the best thing he’s ever found in his bed, without a doubt.

She watches him tolerantly, letting him rearrange, getting the covers straightened out and over them both, moving pillows. All she’s concerned about is how much every fiber of her being misses him, how empty her arms are.

Then they aren’t. A warm, gentle kiss falls at the corner of her mouth, another on her temple, and she wraps her arms around him and squeezes.

His soft laughter develops into, “Warm enough, my love?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be cold again.”

Big hands are stroking her curves, gently fondling her soft bottom. “Not while I’m around you won’t. I promise.”

But neither of them can help thinking about the realities they face, and all the worries they were both pretending weren’t a factor while they enjoyed themselves come rushing back. For a long moment they just hug each other as tightly as possible, holding off whatever the future is.

“Hey…” he whispers finally, pausing to kiss the warm spot beneath her ear.

“hmmm?”

“So how old are you, that you can give me shit about being forty?”

Dutch sighs, running her fingers back through his sweat-dampened hair, remembering how aggressive she’d been with him, when he was only trying to help her. “I’m twenty-six. And I’m sorry I was such a brat.”

“You were scared.” Nudging the pillows into a more comfortable shape, Vasya settles back into them and welcomes her down onto his broad chest.

“No excuse.”

His hand is slipping over her hair again, fingers carding through the long curls. “I’m not excusing you. But you’d had your world pretty well rocked. Everyone has their own ways of coping. Yours is to vent.”

Suddenly certain, she presses up to look down into his eyes. “You liked the fireworks, didn’t you? Me losing my shit?”

“You found it again; that’s what I liked. You had your moment and then you adjusted to the reality of the situation, that’s why you’re still alive. Then you went out alone in the dark and lived to tell about it. Not only lived, but came back locked and loaded. I respect the hell out of that. Not to mention that you’re pretty entertaining when you’re angry. And when you’re not.”

“Pretty much all the time then?” she teases softly, tickling his lean ribs.

He thinks of her turning up her nose at him in the doc’s kitchen, glaring proudly as she pulled away and stormed out of the pawnshop basement, smiling knowingly at him as she asked if he’d missed her, sleeping so trustingly in his arms, and just now, clinging to him while they shared the best sex of his life. Of hers too, he fervently hopes. “Ninety-nine percent of the time anyway.”

She grins that lovely saucy grin at him and his heart turns over in his chest, then her gaze shifts, and her chin sinks into his shoulder. “What are we going to do?”

“Survive.” is his quiet answer. “Fight. Destroy them.”

“Spoken like a true Cossack.” Slender arms tighten around him and she lifts her mouth for a quick kiss. “Do you think we can? Really, do you? The sun was supposed to. But…”

“But it didn’t…and no one knows why.” His heavy sigh lifts her and drops her and she smiles sleepily into his broad shoulder, more content than she can ever remember being, regardless of the Master and his walking worms. “There must be a way. If there wasn’t, they’d have owned the world long ago. We just have to stay in the fight long enough to figure it out.”

“Well I’m in. I’m going to light that cheap bastard Palmer up…” A huge, unladylike yawn escapes her into the pause. “…that’s a promise from me to him.”

“Tough guy, huh?” her lover teases in the deep grumble she loves. “Better get some sleep then.”

“…hm…” 

She’s already going out, he can feel her falling, so it’s probably safe to say it. He keeps it in Russian though, just in case her ears aren’t already full of dreams. “Ya tebya lyublyu, krasivaya devushka. Sleep well.”


End file.
